Bitter Strength
by InzanityFirez
Summary: Most people drink to take the pain away, to get lost from life.   Dean drinks because the pain it gives him keeps him sane.  And for his family, he'll take any pain at all.


**No idea where I'm going with this. Just want to write and Dean's drinking problem is in mind.**

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He can see it. Clear as day. It's in the way Sam looks at him. He used to look at their Dad the same way. Every time John Winchester tipped a bottle back, there was puppy-eyed little Sam, reproachful and concerned, and knowing better than to comment. Or maybe it was cause he was a kid, and you don't tell your Dad what to do any more than you oughta tell your big brother what to do. But still, in his own way, Sam tries to anyway.

_"I'm gonna check the bar." _

_"To work, or drink?" _

_"I haven't decided."_

That same reproach, that same concern. And maybe once, Dean shared it with his little brother like he shared most everything else.

But now he knew better.

Osiris said he was full of guilt? Try _drowning_ in it. Wave after wave of death, destruction, and a heaping helping of crap. How many lives had he ruined, or taken for that matter? He'd lost count. But he didn't forget those faces, he saw those again and again in his nightmares. Ellen and Jo. Pastor Jim and Caleb. Rufus. _Dad_. Even Sam had died, _twice_, if you counted his Hell-jump, and Dean blamed himself. He'd failed to save them. Ellen and Jo died cleaning up a Winchester mess, Pastor Jim and Caleb were murdered by a demon he'd failed to kill-even still, Rufus had been a stupid casualty, his Dad had sacrificed himself for Dean-given up everything he'd worked for-for Dean, and Sammy...that kid...

Dean had toyed with the notion that if he'd never gotten Sam, he'd have done the 'apple-pie' thing himself. Had a kid or two with that hot blonde, been a prick lawyer, gotten out of the hunter gig. But there was no 'getting out', least of all for a Winchester. One way or another, Yellow-eyes would have found him. Sam was his friggen _favorite_. But Dean still blamed himself. Because even though Dad had been missing, he could have looked on his own, he just hadn't wanted to. He'd wanted his little brother back, he'd wanted that family, that partnership...so he'd found an excuse and he'd taken it.

And because of him, Sam died, again and again, and in more ways than literally. Robo-Sam, and the Sam who'd screwed a _demon_ while drinking her blood, Sam who'd gone to Hell and come back a mess: that was on him. He was supposed to watch Sammy, to protect him, and even though in the back of his mind he knew that it wasn't really his fault-because he was one damned man, he still carried the weight of it. Sam's pain equaled his failure. Just like always.

Then there were Castiel, and Lisa and Ben. A crazy-ass angel he'd regarded as his best friend and surrogate brother, and the pair he'd regarded as...his family. One of them was dead, and the other two were lost to him. Castiel's trenchcoat remained buried in the back of the demon-proof trunk of his Impala. It was probably stupid to keep it, it wasn't even Castiel's-not really. It was just what Jimmy happened to be wearing years ago when he'd been angel-napped. But it _felt_ like Castiel. Cas and the trench were a pair, and one look at the trench brought back every flicker of annoyance in those blue eyes, the gruff tones of his voice, and that odd way his lips twitched in the faintest smile. He'd taught the angel that, to feel, to think, to be a person and not just some dick-with-wings.

So in a round-a-bout way, Castiel's death was on his head too. And Lisa and Ben? Well.

Dean had done right in cutting himself out of the equation.

Which left a seriously messed-up Sam, who was playing peek-a-boo with freakin' Lucifer, and an aging Bobby.

And the guilt. Always the guilt.

So yeah, he understood now. When his Dad drank, it wasn't cause he was an ass [even though he kinda was], or because he was just a lousy addict. He didn't have a choice. He was drinking because it was the most convenient method of keeping himself strong in a way most people couldn't touch.

Dean didn't even really drink to keep the pain away, because nothing really kept it away. He still had the nightmares. He still felt the leaden weight in his stomach. His shoulders were heavy. Hell, according to Osiris, his heart weighed a friggen ton. The drink just brought a different pain. One that burned his throat, and made his insides squirm, but it felt better than anything else. It was enough to just _feel_ something else. That bitter liquid tasted sweeter than the blood, and it helped him swallow down the guilt. He drank more and more to keep it down, to keep it buried and drowning. He had to stay strong for Sam and Bobby, and for the other poor sons of bitches left to save. The ones he felt responsible for, if only because he had nothing else but the cross on his back.

Dean had thought a few times in his life that his father was weak for drinking, for being such a stubborn, mean bastard time and again, but he'd loved him and listened anyway. His Dad had been his hero. And now he saw that he wasn't weak, not like that. So if Sam thought he was, well, that just meant that Sam wasn't hurting the way Dean was and that wasn't a bad thing.

Dean didn't get drunk anymore, he was too used to the alcohol. The pleasant buzz had stopped sometime after he'd drug himself out of a grave. Maybe it was dying, or maybe it was forty years in Hell, but things just didn't taste the same. Didn't feel the same. Dean didn't escape to drink the pain, or replace it with pleasure, like Sammy probably thought. He drank because the bitter burn was better than the acid pain. It kept him moving, and going, and not breaking down and becoming the next 'messed-up' one on the list. Dean had to stay strong, he had to be the cold one-because whatever Sam might think: he wasn't cold. Not enough. Dean had taken down Amy, another tic on his list, another stab in his brother's back, and another reason to swallow his own bitter pill.

Maybe Dean was weak, but it wasn't because he drank. And maybe he was an ass, but that was [mostly] because he had to be. Sure, Sammy treating him like a drunk leper wasn't fun, but he could live with that if it meant he could keep going. He'd keep his mouth shut and deal with Sam's attitude, because if he tried to talk about it...he'd just break. He couldn't make Sam understand either, Mr. Guilt-Free, Oprah-Wanna-be, couldn't understand that sometimes, pain was the best cure for pain. If he did understand, then he'd at least have to be as cold as Dean, he'd have been able to kill Amy, guilt be damned. And Dean, honestly, was usually glad that Sam wasn't. And he'd keep it that way. It was something that Dean didn't want to share with his little brother, something that as a big brother, he had every damned right to keep to himself.

Dean would swallow every bitter drop, if it meant he could do what he had to do, and protect his family.

That was worth any pain.

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**So...a different take on Dean's drinking. It seems feasible. That dude drinks like a sailor and gets a little gruff after too many but it doesn't seem like he ever really gets drunk, and most of his 'buzz' seems more like him putting on his cocky-Dean-ness than an actual buzz or anything. He just keeps swallowing the bitter liquid, so if it's not pleasure [and not just some masochistic thing...]. John did the same thing, from what they've given us to glean. So I suppose it's a mildly redemptive look at why. Although I get the feeling John didn't handle his liquor as well as Dean. I digress. XD Dean's drinking, in a roundabout way, is protecting his brother and everyone else...or he's convinced himself. I dunno. Hope it was a decent read, if not...well...blegh. ;-; XD -Witchy.**


End file.
